Insanity
by Chikku-Chikku
Summary: #11. He imagines them to be just the same hue as the crimson petals of a rose; the crimson death of decay and the lovely, lovely fermenting body of a man named Heiwajima Shizuo.


**Insanity**

_Theme #11_

* * *

_Both voices living and dead are softly whispered (bathed in the fluorescent gleam of a too-brilliant morning), within the backwards apartment of a once-grand city_

_(the mantra a wild chase of love and hate, in the midst of insanity)._

* * *

.

Inside the broken building (just one of the many stumbling accidents of gravel and stone in Ikebukuro), a raven-haired man lays in bed.

His vermilion eyes are alight in flushed excitement at the sight of the phone in front of him, the dialing a constant, constant routine. The numbers are ever so familiar (an odd mixture of 0's and 1's, with a dash of 8's and 9's thrown haphazardly somewhere in there); the sequences of unnatural blue light flashing up from the screen to illuminate his face (he can even see the image that reflects back a paleness, a fever, on his cheeks, though it's hard to think of a time when it has never been there) – ever so familiar.

The habit is consistent (causes him to clench onto the small device in his hand with a strong, fixed grip) as he huddles in bed at night, awaiting the deep, annoyed voice that would surely (it must surely!) answer on the other end. He finds it hard to break (break what, exactly, though?; there is not an inch of awareness in this question anymore, he just likes to think that the monotony of these every-days is as difficult to relinquish as his hold on _that _person is); finds it hard to stop and pause, in the whirlwind of activity that has decided to bless him with its presence, and just _think_.

Because thinking, Orihara Izaya decides, is a no-no today.

Instead, on this one routine morning, the informant broker, amidst the heavily desecrated ruins of his apartment (the trash and debris that has long since formed over the weeks and months of neglect), chooses to close his eyes and _listen_. At any moment, the phone will blare from its speakers the voice (he'll compare it to sweet honey for now, since it seems like too amazing of a paradox not to use) that has so long haunted his dreams, both in reality and in fantasy. The voice that will surely (oh, it must surely, surely!) grate his ears, pouring liquid poison into his mind, seeping through the delicate layer of nerves and senses and emotions and stable attachments that has been (for so long; for so, so long) broken by a string of harsh words and harsh actions.

There will be comfort; this Izaya knows for a fact. He'll hear it (even if there is venom that masks the beautiful sincerity, the informant is not a fool, and loves the person even more so for it), and he'll smell it (though the thick barrier between them only allows him to picture the wisp of smoke rising into the air if _he _were here), and he'll definitely, definitely feel it (the muddy fog of condensed heat vaporizing through the atmosphere, speaking of words; just one, two, three) –

_Warmth, warmth, warmth_.

"Ah, it feels so nice–"

He murmurs into the ear of the phone, the syllables coming out like a choke (one could compare it to a sob long past its expiration date), a stumble and twist of tongue and mind. But the image is already set down within his memories, fueling him with an odd and uneven heat, cloaked around areas that are pulsing with bright, sheer redness and elation. He curls inward to himself, to allow his body a second to distribute the heat escaping outward, wraps the mess of blankets and pillows closer to stop the rush of pleasure coursing through his veins (though of course, the onset of _that _person, the image of _his _face and voice, just shocks his system into overdrive), even knowing that it is utterly (completely; irrevocably) impossible.

Izaya wonders how long the waiting will last.

.

Eyes (once red-brown, now fully crimson) bore into the clock on the table, the only tangible item intact in the room besides his bed. The early morning sight of a five-oh-eight jars his lowered lids to the ceiling, then the walls, then to the window (a flitting movement of escape; like a winged bird struggling to and fro, pounding from the back of the caged barrier to the front of a distant freedom), and back down to the phone cradled in his hand.

His eyesight catches something amiss. There is a beep from another line, a dash of red flying across the bruised screen of his device. Izaya blinks in blank confusion at the unfamiliar number before he realizes and relaxes his body; he knows who it is. Forces a smile (feels the slippery, coppery tang of blood slide down from his cracked lips) at the sight of the number. How silly of Shinra! Surely the underground doctor must know by now that he will not answer, will not consent to the blasphemy lies of reality (the intangible, yet truly substantial strand of truth that has ruined his mind and condemned his sanity) –

The lies of his life.

Just the thought of answering, of hearing Shinra's voice on the other end–

"—_but Izaya__—_"

He doesn't want to imagine–

"—_you _have _to let go—_"

The stupid, idiotic (fake, fake) ugliness of his words–

"—_he's gone__—__"_

The terrible, sincere (honest, honest) truth of his impossible words–

"—_he__ truly, honestly is__—_"

Impossible, stupid, idiotic–

"—_please—_"

Stupid, stupid _protozoan–_

"—_just let him go—_"

He doesn't want to hear–

"—_Izaya_—"

About how _dead _his beloved is.

.

The informant laughs airily, blood collecting on the front of his shirt as the beeping slowly fades, once again replaced by the silent murmur of a ghost (in every sense and form of the word) on the other kaleidoscopic side of the universe.

He stares up at the cracked and crumbling sky, more of a biege white than an ebony black, and feels an onslaught of the blinding (the sudden; abrupt) euphoria; the immense rush of what could only be described as _high, _as he giggles and snickers, laughs and chuckles, and pounds his arms in frustration against the side of the bed. The feeling distorts his already clouded mind (violates it in the most hellish way possible – the _only_ way possible), slides down from his head and straight into his strangled heart, until all that's left is the griping emptiness. Those thoughts... the ones that he refuses to voice and accept (the forever-still, somber image of _that _person, limp and broken within the fragments of his imagination and his reality) struggle to surface; memories pressured onto him by that damned doctor and that damned city.

It's so odd–

He's not exactly sure when the laughter starts to turn into sobs, when the voice of inane merriment morphs into a cry of intense agony. He's not entirely certain when the parasite begins to wrap itself around his arms, around his legs, around his entire frame; pressing him back down with such force that he's left gasping in surprise, the air expelled from his lungs. Now the dialing, the ringing, the beeping from his phone – they all converge before his eyes (all glaring and flashing before his eyes) into a _monster_; this thing, this _it_, that has no need to touch him any longer – because there are no arms to wrap themselves around him, no lips to trail down his cheeks and around his throat, no eyes to reel him into their murky brown, lovely depths.

Nothing but the feeling of emptiness, suffocating _loneliness_.

Izaya bites down on his lips, again, again; arches his back into the air in a silent scream of agony; pain shoots through his entire body as the thing, the _monster_, worms its way into his very being. The movement is familiar, this flurry of abuse ever-ever familiar. Tears stream down his blood-red eyes, and he imagines them to be just the same hue as the crimson petals of a rose; the crimson death of decay and the lovely, lovely fermenting body of a man named Heiwajima Shizuo.

The informant broker casts a half-closed gaze towards the object in his slacked left hand, its glint of silver and metal staining cold against his flesh. His body is undulating with the monster's, electricity in their rhythmic flowing as _it _pumps warm, clear liquid into his shaking form. Not a word is murmured between the two, even as Izaya runs a pale hand through the thick locks of blond-hair that is ever-ever nostalgic; even as he caresses the bloodied cheek filled with slashes and cuts, and revels in the light sensation of their touch; even as he parts lips and closes legs, giving and receiving at the same time that pleasure and pain converge in a mixture of brown, gold, and garnet-red.

.

Slowly, he moves the dagger in his hand upwards, forcing his gaze away from the dull brownness of once-brilliant eyes and to the never-ending abyss of his soul. The phone is still open, the intense heat of the device scorching hot in his palm, and the digits flash before him. The numbers are ever so familiar, an odd collaboration of 0's and 1's, with hints of 8's and 9's thrown in there somewhere; the array of dim lights illuminates his face, and Izaya can see, through the cracked and dusty screen, the calm gaze of a 23-year-old man staring back at him.

He pulls himself closer to the body of the parasite, the _monster_, that is still on top of him; has no more hesitation in his desires or actions, and offers the dagger with one gesture of his arm; with smile and light laughter. Izaya watches the thing reach forward with stained, bloodied hands, eyes blank like a puppet that has not quite broken from its spell of imprisonment. He feels a rush of condensed heat vaporizing through the atmosphere, speaking of words; just one, two, three –

_Warmth, warmth, warmth._

"Shizu-chan," Izaya whispers.

He can almost imagine the smile on the monster's face as a pool of red spreads out from underneath his limp figure.

.

* * *

_All the world can see, behind the veiled eyes of a city (bathed in the deep, garnet curtains of a once-grand stage), the constant, constant murmuring of both voices dead and dead_

_(just hiding, hiding, in the midst of insanity)._

* * *

**A/N**: Theme 11 of my 100 theme challenge. (This has got to be my favorite one so far, and not just because 11 is my favorite number :'D) Rated T, but might change it to M just in case, since there are some "suggestive" themes in here.

And darkness strikes again! C: I wanted to do a cheerier theme (like **School**) but I had a really good idea for this. Of course, it didn't turn out as I'd originally planned it, but meh, what ever does?

The style for this theme is really weird, yes, I know. It's even worse than the** City of Umbrellas** one DX But I kinda sort of like it; it fits the theme really well. Random thoughts in the parenthesis signifies the drift in Izaya's mind, and by the end of the piece, you can tell he becomes slightly "saner" because the added thoughts slowly decrease, then disappear altogether. And by sane, I mean he's made up his mind to "die", or in this case, "get killed" by Shizu-chan's ghost, or spirit that his mind's conjured up. (By the way, hope you guys understand what went on in the fic. Sometimes people say I'm too vague and they get confused n_n)

I hope this was enjoyable, even if it's a bit confusing and taxing to read Dx And I can't believe how long I went without adding another theme ;~; Fail. And I really need to update**City of Umbrellas** as well, meh. Reviews and critiques are, as usual, much love~! :'3


End file.
